


freezing warm night

by cactusmori



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Drunken Confessions, Drunkenness, Fluff, M/M, wash is baby i stg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:14:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25409014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cactusmori/pseuds/cactusmori
Summary: When Wash gets drunk while celebrating Charon's defeat, Tucker has to take care of him for the rest of the night.
Relationships: Lavernius Tucker/Agent Washington
Comments: 4
Kudos: 82





	freezing warm night

**Author's Note:**

> i drew some tuckington art a few days ago and wanted to write a short story to go along with it, so here's this. chapter 4 of "the flower's a lie" is in the works, i only have roughly 1.5k words written so it may be a while, though.

Washington was a dead weight on Tucker. The ex-freelancer's arm was draped across the aqua soldier's shoulders as he was nearly dragged along the road. Tucker tried to straighten him several times, to no avail. For once he wished they hadn't been wearing civies; sure, it would make Wash more difficult to carry, but at least he'd be able to fucking see. It's not like there were any lights around to make the night easier to see in.

The man was a lightweight. Tucker was surprised he hadn't been watching his drinking more carefully, since he's always worried about that shit. A few shots of vodka and he'd be shitfaced and flailing. Tucker himself could handle a lot more, he was hardly tipsy after- wait, how much did he drink? Who the fuck knows.

And Tucker volunteered to take care of Wash. Not because he has a bit of a crush on him, because he doesn't, it was because the two of them were close and he was just being a good friend. But Wash in his drunken state had asked- no, more like _demanded_ \- to go outside and look at the stars. So Tucker was dragging him to a hill near base he'd go to whenever he wanted to be left the fuck alone. The spot was always empty, so he assumed nobody else knew about it- no way Wash would remember it in the morning, right?

It wasn't normally a long walk to the hill, but Wash drastically slowed him down and it was near impossible to see in the dark. Not to mention it was fucking cold- Tucker was wearing a god damn tank top and jeans. Wash had a gray hoodie with yellow stripes on it, along with gray sweatpants. At least _he_ wouldn't be freezing. Wash's eyes were tightly shut, his face was red, and he was mumbling something Tucker couldn't make out despite how close they were. There were a few snickers in between the mumbling.

When they finally got to the hill- holy shit, that took a while- Tucker guessed it was nearly 0100. Alright then. They could sit outside until Wash got tired, and he could take him back to his quarters. Easy. Tucker dragged Wash to the top of it, which actually had a decent view of the stars and the base. The faint moonlight illuminated the grass where he sat Wash down and settled beside him. Wash had finally opened his eyes, squinting at the full moon. Tucker's eyes didn't leave his freckled face for a long moment.

But, when he finally looked up at the moon as well, there was shuffling. And he felt something warm against his leg. Looking down, he saw that Wash had fucking crawled in between his legs and was hugging his left leg, his head resting on his thigh. Holy shit, he must have been _really_ drunk. But Tucker didn't move to push him off. He didn't even say anything. Just stared at Wash, who proceeded to bury his face into his thigh and Tucker felt him smile. The warmth was soothing, but this felt weird to him. Wash, the terrifying drill sergeant, the former freelancer, the badass who'd probably get up with a hole in his gut, was _cuddling his leg._

When he slightly shifted, Wash's grip tightened around his leg, fingers digging into his jeans and the skin underneath. It didn't hurt, though, and when he relaxed his leg, so did Wash's grasp. So Tucker placed a hand on his head, and Wash _pushed into it like a fucking cat._ He scratched his scalp a bit, and Wash seemed to like that because he just pushed closer to Tucker.

So they sat there, Tucker _petting Wash,_ until he heard light snores come from the ex-freelancer.

They couldn't sleep out here, obviously; it was too exposed, and freezing, and they'd wake up with unimaginable neck and back pain. Though he was reluctant about it, Tucker grabbed Wash's shoulder and shook him. After a few shakes the snoring stopped, and his eyes blinked open.

"Wash," Tucker whispered into his ear, "Let's go back to base so you can get some fucking sleep."

There was a long groan, followed by Wash digging his face into Tucker's thigh again. Though, shortly after, he let go of his leg. Tucker gently laid him on the ground and got up, then lifted Wash up and half carried, half dragged him back down the hill.

About halfway back to base, Wash pressed his face into Tucker's neck. He jumped, not expecting the sudden contact. But they kept walking as usual, and Tucker adjusted to the hot breath that tickled his neck. He felt Wash's jaw opening and closing, as if he were deciding whether or not to say something, but he's drunk and wouldn't be having that mental debate so he's probably just being weird.

"'M sleep with you," Wash slurred.

"Bow chicka bow wow," Was Tucker's immediate response. Wash let out another groan, followed by laughter. Genuine laughter. Something Tucker barely heard from him. Especially from one of his jokes. Maybe Drunk Wash wasn't so bad.

The walk to Wash's quarters wasn't bad. Still slow. They got lots of stares from soldiers who were still up, who Tucker simply gave a thumbs-up and nod to as if to say "he's fine, we weren't attacked again, I swear." If any soldiers thought Wash was injured, they didn't do shit about it.

Tucker made it to Wash's quarters and opened the door, almost dropping him while trying to close it again. Wash _laughed_ as he almost hit the floor; Sober Wash had a stick constantly up his ass, Drunk Wash probably didn't know what a stick _was._ Tucker just picked him up again and threw him onto the shitty cot, throwing the thin sheet over him. As he turned to leave, he heard a whimper behind him.

An actual fucking whimper. From Agent Washington. What the fuck.

Tucker looked back to see Wash staring at him, wide eyed and left arm extended towards him. He walked back over to the cot, which made Wash place his hand on his face. Tucker grabbed it by the wrist and took it off, but Wash _locked their fingers together and brought Tucker's hand to his face._

"Do you... need something?" Tucker asked, trying to ignore the fact that Wash was rubbing his face against the back of his hand.

"'M sleep with you," Wash repeated the same thing he had said earlier, but Tucker didn't repeat his line again. Because holy shit, Agent Washington wanted to sleep with him (well, now he has to say it, bowchickabowwow) and probably wouldn't let him leave until morning. Seriously, dude had a death grip on his arm at the moment.

Tucker sighed. "Alright, move over."

Wash moved as much as the tiny cot allowed him to, which wasn't much. When Tucker lied in the cot next to him, his leg was dangling over the edge. Wash still hadn't let go of his arm. The position was terribly uncomfortable, but he was convinced the ex-freelancer would crush his arm in a heartbeat if he moved a single inch. Wash pushed himself against Tucker as much as he possibly could, burying his face into Tucker's chest with an arm draped across his torso. And he didn't object. He just lied there, feeling like he'd fall off the cot in a few seconds, putting up with the drunken one's antics.

"Looooove yooou," Wash slurred, and Tucker actually _jumped_. The drunken's grip on his arm tightened as Tucker tensed.

...Did Washington _actually_ just say that?

No, he couldn't have. It wouldn't matter anyway, he's drunk, he doesn't mean it. Yeah, there's no way he's serious. They could laugh about this in the morning. Tucker could _make fun of him about this_ in the morning. Yeah, that'll be hilarious, seeing Wash freak out because he said something _that_ ridiculous. And it's not like Tucker has a bit of a crush on Wash, and it's not like he's tearing up thinking about how Wash definitely did not mean that, because Lavernius Tucker does _not_ tear up about stupid stuff like that. Lavernius Tucker doesn't tear up about _stuff,_ and that's that.

Tucker blinked a few times, clearing his vision (though it definitely did _not_ need to be cleared) before looking back at Wash. He was completely passed out, grip still tight on Tucker's hand, and snoring lightly while muttering something. Other than the occasional twitch of the eye, he looked so _peaceful,_ just laying there, head on Tucker's chest.

Tucker placed his still-free hand on top of Wash's, which rested on his torso. He shut his eyes, hoping to get a bit of rest in despite his position.

* * *

Tucker was shook awake by a cold hand on his shoulder.

He jumped up, instinctively throwing his hand under the cot to look for his pistol (he had one taped to the underside of his cot) but not finding it. Blinking a few times, he looked for the person who woke him.

It was Wash, blue-gray eyes wide and fixated on him. He was sat upright next to him on the cot, and he was _way_ colder than he had been the previous night. His flush was gone, and Tucker tried to imagine the hangover he must be having right now.

"Tucker," Wash started, "what are you doing in my bunk?"

"You're kidding, right?" Tucker raised an eyebrow. He knew he should be giving Wash the benefit of the doubt, but he also didn't care right now. "You'd have probably broken my arm if I _didn't_ stay here."

Not surprisingly, Wash just responds with "What?"

"You were _so_ drunk last night, dude. You hugged my leg for, like, half an hour and forced me to stay with you all night." When the only response he got was a dumbfounded stare, Tucker added, "You said you _loved me._ "

And _that_ broke Wash. Tucker saw his face flush before he ducked his head and covered his face with his hands. He didn't know what to do for a moment; it didn't take Sherlock fucking Holmes to figure out Wash was excessively embarrassed. Everyone says stupid shit when their drunk.

"Is it really that embarrassing?" Tucker asked after a long, uncomfortable silence. "I know you didn't mean it, man."

There was another really long, really awkward moment of silence. From the bit of skin on his neck that was exposed, Tucker could see Wash's blush deepen; it'd probably reach his shoulders if he took his hoodie off. But Wash muttered something that Tucker could have sworn was an "I did."

" _What?_ "

"I did, alright?" Wash looked back up at Tucker for a few seconds before turning his gaze to the floor. "I did mean it, I just... didn't mean to tell you."

Tucker didn't go speechless. His jaw didn't hang loose as he stared at the side of Wash's head, the scars that lined his face, and his twitching fingers. And he absolutely did not mutter an "I love you too" because Tucker doesn't do stuff like that, Tucker goes all out, not silent and sputtering like Wash does. But what he does do when Wash looks back at him again is grab the collar of his hoodie and pull him in for a kiss.

It wasn't a heated kiss. It wasn't a make-out session. It was simple, short, and sweet, and while Tucker prefers the former, he cherishes the latter from time to time. And this was one of those times.

When Tucker pulled back, Wash just... stared at him. Gaping. Other than the blush that somehow still manages to darken (really how the fuck does someone get _that_ red), he gave no indication that he enjoyed that. Only a look of shock. Tucker realizes he might have just fucked up when the taller soldier doesn't say anything.

So he gets up. He gets up to leave, ignoring the sharp pain that was sent up his leg when he used it. But a hand gripped his wrist and pulled him back down onto the cot. Tucker whipped his head around so quick that his dreads flew in his face, though he quickly cleared them away. Wash still hadn't spoken, was still gaping at him like a fucking fish. He must have been staring at his open mouth for too long, because it soon snapped shut, actually _snapped._

"What the fuck," Tucker stated rather than asked, because Wash _still wasn't fucking speaking._

"Did you just do that out of pity?" Wash asked. Tucker blinked at him a few times before he continued. "Because if you did, I don't want you to feel forced to reciprocate, I completely understand if you aren't interested in-"

"Dude," Tucker interrupted. He settled himself against the wall, lying down on the cot, and grabbed Wash by the waist, pulling the ex-freelancer close to him. When Wash didn't do anything, didn't _say_ anything, Tucker buried his face in the crook of his neck. "Just shut the fuck up."

And he did.

And they lied there for a long moment.

Long enough for a soldier to knock on the door and ask if they (well, just Wash) were alright. Wash got him to leave by answering "Yeah, just doing paperwork," and they sat in silence once more.

For probably the first time in years, Tucker wished he could stay this close to somebody for forever.


End file.
